


O Musa, Mihi Causas Memora

by PNGuin



Series: Dux Bellorum One-Shots [3]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alec Lightwood Loves Magnus Bane, Alec has a lovely singing voice, And Alec gives him those things, Drunk Alec Lightwood, Fluff, Hurt Magnus Bane, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magnus Bane Deserves Nice Things, Magnus Bane Has No Magic, Magnus Bane Loves Alec Lightwood, Mentions of Slavery, Nightmares, Sexual Innuendoes, Slow Dancing, Songfic, They're so incredibly sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-05 21:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17332511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PNGuin/pseuds/PNGuin
Summary: Five times Alec sings to Magnus, and one time Magnus returns the favor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all need a little pick me up, so have some lovely little one-shots of Magnus being hopelessly in love and Alec serenading him.
> 
> Title is a quote from the Aeneid, which roughly translates to "O Muse, recount to me the causes."
> 
> This chapter occurs just a couple weeks after their first official date at the Hunter's Moon.

**I**

 

It’s been a _very_ long day and Magnus is ridiculously relieved to finally be back in the comfort of his own home. He’s been on his feet ever since he got up that morning – nearly nine hours ago, now – and his back aches from where he’s been bending over cauldrons and spell books. His handful of scheduled clients had all been needy and bothersome, and then there had been several emergency situations which had demanded his attention. Now all he wants is to just collapse into one of his armchairs and drink a glass (or several) of his favorite wine of the week.

But he can’t seem to calm down just yet. There’s tension in his lower back and an antsy tingle that climbs up his legs and settles in his stomach. His magic is skittering through his veins like some overeager child that is high on sugar and he _itches_ all over from it. Every time he tries to sit down, he has to bound right back up and pace around just to calm his frayed nerves. He doesn’t even know what’s causing the sudden distress, but it clings to him and forces him to keep moving. His rings clink against his wine glass as he twiddles his fingers, his knee bounces in place, he catches himself chewing on one of his thumbnails like a toddler. He scoffs at himself, disappointed in how _nervous_ he seems to be. It’s ridiculous. He’s _Magnus Bane_. He doesn’t get nervous or anxious or fidgety.

Except, apparently, when _Alexander_ is concerned.

Because that’s what it is, without a doubt. Alexander is on his way to Magnus’ apartment and the warlock doesn’t really know what to expect this time. They’ve gone on a couple dates now, and each one has left Magnus somehow more deeply entrenched in his overwhelming eagerness. They’ve gone out for drinks at the Hunter’s Moon, and they’ve visited Tokyo, and they’ve wandered the streets of Rome, and Alec has enjoyed each location with a wide-eyed wonder that belies his gloriously refreshing youth.

But Magnus doesn’t exactly have an idea for this date. It was planned right at the last minute; Alec had texted him asking to come over, and after his last disaster of the day Magnus had been so eager to say _yes_ that he had neglected to even contemplate the consequences of that action. He’s tired and he’s maybe used a little too much magic and he doesn’t think he can safely portal them downtown, let alone across the world. Quite honestly, Magnus just wants to have a quiet night in. Maybe curl up on the sofa, order some takeout, watch crappy mundane reality TV.

He can’t just give in to that yearning, however. For all that Alec is vastly accustomed to the violence and cruelties of his life, he still retains an innocent naivety of the world at large. So Magnus has a young, impossibly attractive shadowhunter to travel with and impress. And – damn it all – Magnus Bane is nothing short of impressive. He can suck up his exhaustion, at least enough to go into town. Maybe to that new upscale sushi place that opened in Upper Manhattan, or he can get them the best seats in the house for a Broadway performance, even on such short notice.

Magnus is pacing the length of his living room like some lovesick southern belle. He feels like he needs to grab some silk hand fan to coyly cover part of his face just to complete the look. And then he immediately feels absurd for the thought; he lets out a scoff at his pathetic behavior and idly waves his hand.

The stereo flickers to life and the gentle sounds of old-school soft rock drift through his apartment. He tosses back the rest of his wine – a heavy dry red that would leave Alexander wrinkling his nose endearingly – and then immediately refills it. His leg is bouncing again, and the clicking of his shoes against the floor further frustrates him. Before he can grow too aggravated, he stands from his favorite armchair and paces into the middle of the room. A simple snap of his fingers moves the couches and tables out of the way, opening up the room enough that Magnus can idly dance to the beat of the music.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back and lets the music flow through him. He’s always enjoyed dancing, whether it be a classy ballroom waltz or the frantic grinding in a club. There’s an artful physicality to it that helps bleed all of the tension and anxiety and nerves out. Magnus has always been a patron of the arts; he sees art in any form as being an honest expression of humanity, full of cultural significance and raw emotion. But he’s never been particularly artistic outside of dancing; he can’t paint to save his life, nor can he compose music, nor can he wax poetry. Dancing, he can do, and the rhythm of the music thrums through his veins and echoes in the beats of his heart, mixing with his blood and his magic in perfect tandem. It reminds him that he’s _alive_.

His wards shift at the edges of his awareness, the layers of magic bending and folding to allow someone through. A grin tugs on his lips. _Alexander_. The shadowhunter is making his way up the rickety stairs and will be walking through Magnus’ front door at any second, but he doesn’t make any move to stop dancing. In fact, he waves a hand to turn the music up a little bit more, and then spins so that his back is facing the door.

Magnus sways his hips in a suggestive manner that is far more suited for a club than it is for the soft rock playing in his apartment, but he can’t help the thrill of excitement that shivers down his spine and straight to his groin. He knows that he’s an attractive man, and he knows that _Alec_ knows it. He’s promised himself that he won’t just madly fall into his bed with Alexander, has promised that he’s going to take it slow. But that doesn’t mean he can’t tease the blushing virgin a little; he loves to see all of Alec’s wonderfully unguarded reactions.

His magic, just as impatient as he himself is, has the doors swinging open even before Alec can knock. He doesn’t turn to face Alec, not immediately. Instead, he keeps dancing until he hears the telltale hitch in the nephilim’s breath, loud even with the music playing, and the cough that the younger man chokes out to try and hide it. It has Magnus’ grin growing until it very nearly hurts his cheeks and he has to school his own expression into something more blasé and composed. After all, he _does_ have a reputation to keep.

When he does finally pivot on his heel to face Alexander, he finds the young man frozen in his living room, wide-eyed and open-mouthed with that delectable blush that Magnus adores. The shadowhunter snaps his mouth shut with an audible _clack_ and Magnus has to vehemently tamp down the snort that tries to escape. Alec swallows hard enough that his Adam’s apple bobs; Magnus’ eyes follow the movement, and then get distracted by the swooping lines of his deflect rune, and then he is thoroughly preoccupied with images of pushing Alec against one of his bookcases and ravishing his neck.

But, no, Magnus is supposed to be on his best behavior. So he settles for putting down his wine glass and sauntering over to his nephilim. Alexander gives him that adorable little grin of his and leans in to brush a chaste kiss against Magnus’ lips. The warlock wants to grab him by the belt loops and tug so that they’re pressed right up against each other, wants to deepen the kiss until both of them are gasping for air.

He doesn’t. But he definitely wants to.

Before he can start rambling about all of the potential things they could go out and do – a trip to the opera house and then to a fancy dinner, or maybe they could go to the mundane movies, or to this lovely collection of local shops that he knows about – Alec’s carefree smile is dimming into a concerned frown. He tilts his head and that coupled with his wide hazel eyes and the soft worry on his face makes Magnus’ heart skip over several beats. _Gods above_ , how does Alexander manage to go from badass demon-slayer to overeager puppy in a matter of seconds? It’s impossibly endearing and completely unfair.

“Hey,” he starts, hesitantly resting a hand on Magnus’ shoulder. The touch is so delicate, so light, as if Alec fears breaking Magnus or intruding upon his personal space; and yet the point of contact grounds him. “You seem tired. Long day?”

Magnus is struck speechless by just how nonchalantly he asks. Like it’s completely natural for some shadowhunter to be able to take one look at him and so intimately _know_ how exhausted he is. All Magnus can think is an echoing litany of _how?_ He’s _always_ so careful about hiding his own state of being in the shadow of his reputation; he’s spent centuries cultivating an absolutely _flawless_ poker face. No one can ever tell what he’s feeling, or thinking, or planning, or doing.

No one except for one Alexander Gideon Lightwood, that is.

He swallows back the dumbfounded surprise that lumps in his throat and he pastes a smile onto his lips. It’s one of his fake smiles and usually he can keep it up for _hours_ ; but something in Alec’s eyes make him waver now. Before he lets his masks slip even further than they have, he spins away and wanders over to his drink cart, rattling off mindless words as he makes a strategic retreat.

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine, darling. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it. Now, how do you feel about dinner and a show? Or we can go to that Native American exhibition at the Met that you mentioned last week. I know of this wonderful Mediterranean restaurant we could go to, if you’re in the mood.” He’s fully prepared to keep going – he has several _pages_ worth of fun things they could go do – but when he turns back around Alec has that little furrow between his brows and the younger man is watching him with enough intensity that Magnus almost worries his clothes will catch fire.

“Or we could stay in for the night, order some takeout from that Thai place down the street,” Alec suggested.

It’s pathetic, but Magnus wants to do nothing more than agree. He wants to just lounge around on his couch, curled up against Alec’s side, sipping wine and eating takeout. He’s _exhausted_ , but he’s still jittery, his magic zipping restlessly throughout his body. And, well, he doesn’t want to disappoint Alec. Doesn’t want to waste their precious few date hours on something so trivial and mundane. He wants to show Alec the world, and he can’t exactly do that from his own apartment.

“Why do that when we could go out and see the sights, Alexander!” he protests, pouring himself a new glass of wine and mixing a cocktail that Alec will hopefully enjoy. He feels more than sees Alec draw nearer; it’s almost like he can sense the shadowhunter’s body heat drawing him in like a magnet.

“Well, for one, you seem tired. So maybe we should take it easy,” Alec explains. And darn him for trying to use reason and logic to convince Magnus. How dare he. “And for two, we could find ways to keep ourselves occupied here.”

It’s an exceptionally good thing that Magnus is turned away from Alec, because his eyes pop open and he has to take a deep steadying breath just to push down the sudden wave of arousal that rears its head. The poor little nephilim is utterly clueless to the double entendre of his innocent suggestion, but Magnus’ mind immediately floods with all of the various ways they could _occupy_ themselves.

He shakes his head to try and clear the images – it’s only partially effective – and then he turns to Alec, cocktail already stretched out to the shadowhunter. Alec accepts, but eyes the vibrant pink drink suspiciously. He takes a hesitant sip and Magnus is absurdly proud of himself when Alec’s eyes light up in interest. The shadowhunter licks his pink lips and Magnus has to take a large gulp of his own drink just to ignore what the sight of Alec’s tongue does to him.

“So, what do you suggest we do to occupy ourselves, Alexander?” Magnus wonders as he steps into Alec’s personal space. And maybe he lets a sultry purr slip just the slightest bit into his tone. So what if he wants to flirt with his gorgeous boyfriend; Alec certainly doesn’t seem to mind.

But he does seem to panic a little. His hazel eyes go wide and they flit around the apartment as if looking for a quick answer. “Um,” he draws out. “We could… _dance?_ ” Alec finally settles on, seeming completely caught off guard by his own response, as if his own mouth has betrayed him.

A delighted grin breaks past Magnus’ mask. He sets his glass down and takes Alec’s hand. Pausing only long enough for Alec to down the rest of his cosmopolitan and put down his own glass, Magnus tugs him to the center of the room. Alec willingly allows himself to be dragged around, but his face is burning with a brilliant blush and the poor man looks like he just wants to sink into the ground. But this _is_ Alec’s idea, and Magnus isn’t foolish enough to pass up the chance that has landed in his lap.

“Do you know how to dance?” Magnus asks as he slides his hands up Alec’s arms to rest on his shoulders. He delights in the feeling of the corded muscle beneath the shadowhunter’s shirt – it _does things_ to him – but he carefully files the reaction away to revisit when he’s alone in his bed later tonight.

It would take a far bigger person than Magnus to not grin at how Alec flails his arms for a second before swallowing thickly and resting his hands on Magnus’ waist. They’re placed a little high – certainly higher than where Magnus _wants_ them to be – but he doesn’t mind so long as Alec is comfortable with it.

“Um. My mom made me learn how to waltz when I was the _chambelan_ for Izzy’s _quinceañera_. But that was pretty much a disaster even then, and it’s been a few years so. No, I probably don’t know.”

Even as he’s responding, Magnus begins trying to guide them through a simple four-step swaying pattern. It’s rather slow and easy, something used for any beginner, and after the first few stumbling steps, Alec finds his footing and falls into it. He isn’t terrible, not by a long shot, although Magnus never really expected him to be. Alec is a shadowhunter – a damn good one, at that – and his training has given him an instinctual understanding of how his body moves, where to shift his weight, how to keep everything smooth and graceful in its efficiency. So while Alec is far from attending any dance competitions, he can hold his own well enough.

But he doesn’t meet Magnus’ eyes; instead, his head is tilted down and his gaze is focused on their feet. While Magnus _is_ wearing one of his favorite pairs of Louis Vuitton, he doesn’t really think that it’s something Alec cares about. Besides, why should Alec be looking down when Magnus is standing right in front of him? It simply does not suffice.

“Alexander,” Magnus calls gently, cupping one of his hands under the shadowhunter’s jaw and coaxing his head up. “You’re overthinking it,” he says, much to his boyfriend’s embarrassment.

“Right. Sorry,” Alec blushes. He takes a deep breath and tightens his grip on Magnus’ waist. (Magnus wants to know what it would feel like if Alec gripped him hard enough to bruise. But, alas, such is a question for another day.) He meets Magnus’ eyes and, even though they’re just dancing and it’s not any life or death situation, the open trust there robs Magnus’ lungs of all his breath. “You lead, and I’ll follow.”

It seems like a more profound statement than what the situation rightly garners, but Magnus smiles sickeningly sweet for it as he leads Alec through the dance. They easily slip into a gentle rhythm that doesn’t quite match up with the music playing. It’s to their own beat that they sway in each other’s arms, and a part of Magnus is intimidated by just how effortlessly in sync they can be. A far larger part of Magnus is internally leaping for joy and shooting off fireworks in some extravagant display.

They don’t talk much, just a few quiet inquiries about their respective days, and then they lapse into silence. But it isn’t uncomfortable or forced, not in the slightest. In fact, it’s the most at peace Magnus has felt in days, weeks, months, _years, decades_. He’s _exhausted_ and the day finally catches up to him; that irritating hum of his magic and his nerves finally fades away and suddenly his limbs feel as heavy as lead.

As if somehow sensing this, Alec carefully slides his hands around to Magnus’ back and ever-so-gently pulls the older man closer. They’re almost pressed right up against each other, and Magnus is nearly delirious from the combination of exhaustion and the delicious heat radiating from Alec’s body. He loops his arms around the shadowhunter’s neck and his fingers idly play with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Alec’s eyes slip closed and Magnus’ head drops to rest on his shoulder. Their dancing has devolved into something simpler, just a gentle swaying motion that threatens to lull Magnus to sleep.

There’s just the sound of the music drifting through the apartment, but with Magnus’ ear pressed against Alec’s shoulder he can hear the faint humming coming from his boyfriend. A grin curls at the edges of Magnus’ lips and he delicately presses a chaste kiss right on the deflect rune. Given how close they are to each other, Magnus can feel the delicious shiver that travels down Alec’s body.

It’s only moments later that Alec’s humming shifts into a near silent rendition of Elton John’s _Your Song_. The whisper of the lyrics ghost over the shell of Magnus’ ear. He’s certain that it’s only due to their closeness and the fact that Magnus is intently listening for it that he can even hear the words being murmured by his precious Alexander. He isn’t sure if Alec is even aware of what he’s doing, so quiet are the words. But they wash over Magnus like a tidal wave and he’s suffocating under the weight.

But it’s a good kind of pain, like that shock of air that you heave and gasp for after almost drowning. He clings to it, and clings to Alec, and hopes that maybe Alec feels the same way. Elton put it far more eloquently than Magnus could ever hope to replicate.

How wonderful life is with Alec in the world, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, ain't that just the sweetest. Alec could give me cavities.
> 
> The chambelan is a male escort (often a brother/cousin/close friend) who takes the quinceanera girl and leads her in the second dance, right after the ceremonial father/daughter dance. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed! Next chapter will be out in a few days, so keep your eyes peeled. And don't forget to drop a comment. They sustain my lifeforce.
> 
> ~PNGuin


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter occurs a bit after episode 2.15, where Magnus finally confesses about his nightmares and memories that resurfaced after the Azazel Incident.

**II**

His steps are almost silent against the worn stone beneath his feet. The air that rattles through the open windows and doors is warm and wet, tasting like salt on his tongue and promising a strong monsoon season. He shivers, even though he is not cold. It’s late, far past his time for sleep, and the darkness outside is inky and cloying. It inches into the house, laboriously beat back by the flickering of the candles. _Vader_ says that he is too old now to cry during the night, but _mama_ always comes to comfort him.

Except lately she’s been ignoring his cries, leaving him to sob himself back to sleep in the isolation of his own room. Even the house slaves have been avoiding him. He used to watch the other children play in the kitchens, although that always pissed _vader_ off, but now their mothers glare at him and shoo him away. He’s seen the rest of the slaves watch him and shuffle back whenever he passes them in the halls. None of them speak to him, and they avoid interaction whenever possible.

He’s had another nightmare. Of fire that burns hotter than any flame in the kitchens, of smoke that clogs up his lungs, of sickening creatures that prowl in the night. They whisper in some hissing language that he doesn’t know; it’s nothing like the sharp lilt of _mama’s_ tongue or the heavy staccato of _vader_ ’ _s._ He always tries to ask what they’re saying, what they want from him, but the only response he ever gets is the snapping of jaws and the clacking of claws.

He just wants his _mama_. He wants to clutch at the folds of her dress and bury his face against her stomach and let her card her fingers through his hair and sing him gentle lullabies. But he can’t find her anywhere. She hasn’t frequented the kitchens or the dining rooms in many days and she hasn’t been out to walk through the gardens with him all week. He goes to the only place left he can think to check. _Vader_ doesn’t like it when he creeps into their bedroom, but he knows that _vader_ is still out overlooking the fields, giving the slaves their nightly beating. If he finds _mama_ and leaves quickly enough, _vader_ will not be any the wiser, and he won’t receive his own nightly beating.

The door is open and the wind makes the sheer curtains billow. Everything is cast in a soft glow by the array of candles. _Mama_ is lying in bed and her eyes are closed, which is silly because it’s far too early for her to be asleep. She looks peaceful and soft in the candlelight, and he almost feels bad that he’s going to wake her up. When he calls for her, she doesn’t open her eyes. When he steps up to the bed and shakes her shoulder, she doesn’t open her eyes. He pulls back the sheets, wanting to drag her from bed so that she can go back to his room with him.

Everything is red.

It stains her nightgown, pools on top of her stomach, drips down the folds of her clothing and onto the bed sheets. He stares. How can she look so peaceful? His stomach roils and he nearly retches, but he’s frozen where he stands. He can’t breathe, or blink, or run away. He can’t do anything. He calls for her again, in a croaking voice that echoes harshly in the silence. No one responds. His eyes _burn_.

_Vader_ finds him like that. _Vader_ takes one look at _mama_ , pales in a way that only his people can, and then turns on him. His _vader_ screams and screams and screams at him until he’s clutching at his shirt collar and dragging him outside. It’s dark without the candles and he can hear the clattering of teeth and claws somewhere in the night around them. He scrambles to keep his footing, but _vader’s_ legs are longer and he can’t stay upright. His knees hit the dirt, scraping along the stones, and his feet are still bare and they hurt against the ground.

They stop by the bank of the _Tijgersgracht_. There’s a little worn away spot where he and _mama_ like to sneak away to, where they can sit with their feet in the water as they watch the boats floating up and down. It’s his favorite place to be.

But then _vader_ has a handful of his hair. And then his head is pushed under. The water rushes into his nose and mouth. He can’t spit it out. It just rushes back in. He’s _screaming_ but the air bubbles are silent and there’s only the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He thinks of the fire and smoke from his dreams, can feel it flooding through his veins. And he latches onto it and _pulls_ from somewhere deep inside himself.

His head is back above water. He’s gasping for air. _Vader_ is screaming in agony behind him. He turns and sees the charring of skin.

 

He jolts awake to the smell of flame and burnt flesh still lingering in his nose. His breathing is ragged, his eyes _burning_ as they flicker madly around the room. He’s shaking, his entire body quivering. He forces a big gulp of air into his lungs and presses his head back into his pillow. He can feel that it’s soaked with sweat. He slips into his meditation breathing to try and banish the trembling of his body, but it doesn’t help. When he opens his eyes and tries to sit up, he can’t.

Alec’s head is resting on his chest, one of the shadowhunter’s legs tossed over his hips and one of his arms curled around the warlock’s torso. Usually, the weight and warmth of his exceptionally cuddly boyfriend would ground him, would hold him down and stop him from floating away. Now, it feels suffocating. He’s _drowning_ and he can’t seem to catch his breath.

He wants to toss Alec’s limbs off of him and flee, but he _can’t_ because Alec is – miraculously – still asleep. The shadowhunter is an impossibly light sleeper; when he first started staying the night, he would wake up every single time Magnus shifted in his spot or got up to use the bathroom. Magnus knows that the only reason he’s managed to hide his nightmares from Alec the past few weeks is because the poor man has been so utterly exhausted that not even his ingrained soldier instincts have managed to drag him out of his well-deserved sleep. And, maybe, also because Magnus has been casting a few light sleeping spells over his boyfriend; nothing drastic, just something simple that makes him a bit less likely to notice when Magnus detangles their limbs and flees from their shared bed.

It’s for Alec’s own good, if you ask Magnus. Ever since Alec was appointed Head of the New York Institute, he’s been averaging nearly fifteen hours of work every single day. He has to work overtime just to make up for the clusterfuck that Aldertree left behind, not to mention he has to manage his new ambitious project of the Downworld Cabinet. And through it all he still finds time to drag himself back to Magnus’ loft most nights, still occasionally wakes up when Magnus leaves the bed, still tries to comfort his boyfriend even while he stays half-asleep.

It’s all absurdly endearing and it threatens to break Magnus’ heart. But Alec doesn’t deserve to be woken up every single night just because his warlock boyfriend has some infantile nightmares. Alec needs all the rest he can get if he’s to continue improving the disastrous situation at the New York Institute. Even now, with only the minimal light filtering in through the slats of the blinds, Magnus can pick out the dark bags under his eyes. His face is slack and gentle in sleep like it never truly gets to be in his waking hours, and the sight of it pains Magnus almost more than the lingering sensation of water in his throat.

He raises a hand – shaking and trembling as it is – and gently rests it on Alec’s cheek. He sweeps his thumb over the swell of his cheekbone, threads his fingers through the curly hairs at his temple, traces the delicate but strong lines of his jaw and nose and brow. Magnus wishes that he could just stare at Alec all night, that he could let the quiet little snores and the curl of Alec’s cold toes against his calf lull him back into slumber.

But he can still smell burnt flesh.

He ever so carefully begins to wiggle himself out of Alec’s octopus-like grip. It’s infinitely more impossible than it looks, because Alec is the epitome of a cuddler and even the slightest movement has the shadowhunter trying in vain to tighten his hold on Magnus’ body. Eventually, Magnus has to resort to easing himself out while slowly replacing his own body with one of the large pillows. Just as Magnus is about to be completely free of Alec’s hold, his snores cut off. He lets out a quiet little whimper, his brow furrowing, as if he’s subconsciously aware of Magnus’ absence. The warlock waits with bated breath, but Alec buries his head against Magnus’ pillow and latches his limbs around it like some overgrown koala.

Magnus breathes a sigh of relief and finally sits up with his feet over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold against his bare feet. His plan is to grab his silk robe and go out onto the balcony, collapse onto the sofa that’s out there and wait for the sun to rise. It’s mid-June, and he might even remove his temperature-control spells just to feel the humidity, let it sit on his skin like a living thing, like it used to do when he was a young boy.

Just before he stands up and goes to follow through with his plans, guilt hits him right in the stomach. He turns to look back at Alexander, still sleeping – albeit fitfully – with his limbs clutching at the pillow, still with bruised bags under his eyes, still with that furrow between his brows that always makes Magnus want to kiss his worries away. Magnus has to swallow thickly just to breathe again, and his hands are shaking once more, and his heart is thumping rapid fire in his chest. He can still taste the brackish water on his tongue, can still smell hellfire and burnt flesh, can still see the blood as it congeals around the self-inflicted wound in his mother’s torso.

But he _promised_ Alexander. Just a few short days ago, Alec confronted him about the nightmares and reassured him about his support. And Magnus poured out part of his heart, sobbed into his boyfriend’s shoulder for nearly an hour, and then promised to try and let him in more. Yet, here he is, seconds away from beating a hasty retreat and fleeing from the only source of comfort that he’s been offered.

He remembers all of the times that Alec fled from the Institute, from the pressures of his own life, only to show up at Magnus’ loft. All of the times that the repressed shadowhunter painstakingly unlearned his habit of hiding his trauma in order to hesitantly reach out for Magnus, seeking the love and support necessary to survive past abuses. Magnus has, admittedly, tended to look at Alec Lightwood, still unlearned in so many aspects of the world, and believe that he himself is the one who must teach. He forgets, all too often, just how much Alec has to _teach him_.

His hand is reaching out and shaking Alec’s shoulder before he can even rethink it. Like the true shadowhunter he is, Alec is blinking awake immediately. He sits up in a single fluid movement and he turns to face Magnus with all the efficiency of a well-trained soldier. His body is tensed and alert within a split second, but when his eyes narrow in on Magnus at the edge of the bed, they are still the slightest bit blurry and crusted over with sleep sand.

“Mags?” his groggy voice rumbles out, mind not quite as quick at waking as his body is.

Magnus wants to respond. Wants to brush the messy curls of hair out of Alec’s eyes, wants to pull Alec into a hug that promises to be warm and crushing, wants to sink back under the covers and let Alec’s limbs wrap around him. But instead, all he does is choke out a strangled sob.

Alec is there in a heartbeat, tugging Magnus against the heat of his body and holding him together in his embrace. He peppers kisses to Magnus’ temple, and cradles the warlock’s head so that Magnus can bury his face in the juncture between neck and shoulder. His love whispers out strings of soothing endearments, snippets of _“it’s okay, baby”_ and _“I’m here, sweetheart”_ that finally, _finally_ temper the roaring of flames from his dream. Alec sweeps one of his hands up and down the bare expanse of Magnus’ back and he rocks them gently, as one does when trying to soothe a child, like his own mother once had. Magnus thinks that perhaps it should feel condescending or infantile, but all he feels is loved and cherished, all of the things that he’s been missing for _centuries._

Eventually, he grows exhausted enough that he no longer has the energy for heaving sobs and he’s reduced to shuddering hiccoughs. He’s wrung out and shaky; his mouth is dry, and his face is tacky from the salt of his tears. And through it all, Alec remains a sturdy rock for him to cling to, a soothing balm for the agony in his chest, a stalwart guardian against the enemy of his own mind. Once he’s finally all cried out, he slumps down, fully trusting Alec to catch him and hold him up.

“Sorry,” he croaks out, muffled against the delicate skin of Alec’s neck.

“Shh,” his darling shadowhunter immediately hushes him, one of his hands lightly running through the shorn hairs on the back of Magnus’ head. It’s soothing enough that Magnus very nearly wants to purr from it. “Don’t you ever apologize for needing comfort. That’s exactly what I’m here for.”

That draws a reluctant grin from Magnus. “My own personal cuddler,” he hums. At the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the clock on the nightstand. It reads 03:27 in angry red block numbers. “You have to be up in two hours,” he mumbles, a spike of guilt lacing up his spine.

“Oh well,” Alec shrugs. “The rest of the Institute will just have to put up with a cranky Head. They’ve survived worse.”

Magnus wants to argue, but he finds that he doesn’t actually care enough to do so. Instead, he just sinks deeper into Alec’s heat and lets his boyfriend take care of him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Alec eventually asks. He isn’t expectant, not pressuring for anything, and Magnus is thankful for it.

“No,” he admits petulantly. “It was just the same thing as always,” and that’s as close to talking about it as he can manage in that moment. Alec doesn’t press any further.

“Do you want to try and sleep again? Or do you need anything?” Alec continues, voice soft but succinct. From what Magnus knows, dealing with nightmares is something that Alec is well-versed in. “I used to make special nightmare pancakes for my siblings, if you want any of those.”

While it certainly sounds tempting, Magnus isn’t especially hungry. “I’m exhausted,” he says quietly. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep.”

Alec hums in thought, and guilt hits Magnus again because he can hear how tired Alec is just from that single noise. “Would it help if I sang you to sleep?” the shadowhunter suggests, and Magnus is certain that he wouldn’t offer unless he was already half-asleep.

The thought of this tough shadowhunter cuddling up against Magnus and singing quiet lullabies is absurd enough that Magnus can feel an abrupt laugh bubbling up in his chest. He swallows it down; he wants to scoff at the notion of needing a lullaby, wants to remind Alec that he is a powerful centuries-old warlock who hasn’t been sung a lullaby since his _mother_ was still alive and he was in the single digits of his lifespan. But the problem is that Alec probably already knows all of those things. And he offers anyway.

Before any words of dissent can form, he’s choking out a soft _“yes.”_

Alec leans back into the comfort of the pillows, gently pulling Magnus and rearranging them until Magnus has his cheek resting on Alec’s chest, their legs sufficiently tangled and their arms wrapped around each other. Alec makes sure that the sheets are draped equally over them – even though the night will result in Magnus eventually hogging all of them. He presses a lingering kiss to Magnus’ temple and begins to sing.

Magnus recognizes the song immediately; he remembers first hearing it in the recording room while the band performed, and hearing it at concerts around the world. The soft melody of _Here Comes the Sun_ is rendered even more tender by the hushed serenity between them. Alec has a good voice, but it’s scratchy and hoarse from exhaustion and grogginess. Magnus has heard the song sung by the Beatles themselves, has listened to some of the greatest musical artists do renditions of it. But in that moment, wrapped up in the shadowhunter’s arms, his ear pressed against his chest so that he can feel each rumble, Alec’s voice is the single most beautiful thing Magnus has ever had the honor to hear. And surely he’s only slightly biased.

Miraculously, between Alec’s soothing voice and the gentle stroking of his hand up and down the warlock’s back, Magnus feels the rest of the world fade away, until it’s just the two of them in the sanctity of Magnus’ bedroom. The smell of flames and burnt flesh vanishes, the sight of blood-stained nightgowns abandons his mind, the feeling of water clogging his nose and throat washes away. He feels boneless and light, exhaustion rapidly drawing him back into the depths of slumber.

Before he can fall asleep, he presses a lingering kiss to Alec’s chest and whispers out a heartfelt _“thank you.”_ Alec merely tightens his arms in response, continuing on with his dedicated singing. Magnus has always loved this particular song, has always taken it as a bit of good advice to know that the sun will always rise.

But Magnus doesn’t have to wait for the sun to rise; he has his own right in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vader is Dutch for father, and it does not refer to Darth Vader.
> 
> Also, if we really are going with the fact that Magnus was born in Batavia back in the Dutch East Indies, and if his family was really as well off as they seemed in the flashbacks, then his step-father absolutely 100% owned slaves, predominantly consisting of the native Javanese populace. In fact, there's a very good chance that Magnus' own mother was purchased from the slave trade and forcibly married, if we want any sort of historical accuracy here. Which I certainly do.
> 
> Thank you all very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please leave me a comment!
> 
> ~PNGuin


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after the season 2 finale but before the beginning of season 3.

**III**

The snow falling around them is beautiful, all light and fluffy. It latches onto bare tree branches, piles up on the edges of buildings, clings to Alexander’s eyelashes as he looks up at the night sky above them, watching the flakes drift down with calm serenity. The snow _would_ dust the shadowhunter’s hair – half-melting in the messy strands and making them glisten in the festive street lights – if not for the fact that Magnus forced him to wear a beanie for warmth. It matches the wool scarf Magnus also bought him, and seeing him indulge Magnus in such a manner warms him to the core.

It’s nearing Christmas – just a week away from it – and they’re wandering the snowy streets of Moscow. The Russian city is always a beautiful sight, but in the soft light of winter the place just seems to _glow_. Technically speaking, it’s their second Christmas together; however, Magnus isn’t really sure if the first one counts, considering how horrifically busy they had both been, what with _Valentine_ and the _Circle_ and all the shenanigans of Alec’s siblings and their friends. But with Valentine finally dead and things in the Shadow World somewhat in a peaceful lull, they finally have time to spend more than just a few fleeting hours together.

Which is exactly why Magnus had conspired with Izzy and Jace to plan a much needed, far overdue, two-week long vacation for Alec. Ever since being promoted to Head, he has been running himself ragged and it’s been breaking Magnus’ own heart to see the persistent exhaustion and stress clinging to him. So he forced Alec to reluctantly leave the Institute in his siblings’ capable hands and he whisked them away. They already spent a few days sunbathing in Malta, wandering around the Christmas Market in Nuremberg, and maybe even recreating some iconic scenes from _The Sound of Music_ while they were touring the city of Salzburg. After they spend another day in Moscow, they’re off to Tuscany, and then they’re going to finish up their vacation in San Miguel de Allende.

Although Magnus was the one who planned out all of their destinations, he’s been content with giving Alec free reign, suggesting the occasional place to visit or thing to do, but ultimately just sitting back and letting Alec drag them around the cities. Magnus would try and get them to rest more, maybe lounge around in just their underwear, drinking ridiculously expensive alcohol and laying in front of a roaring fire. But he’s very aware that his darling Alexander is royally terrible at staying in bed, or even just taking it easy. The shadowhunter may indulge in cuddling as often as they can afford, but Alec is too active to merely laze around for hours at a time.

They’ve been on their feet all day, and it’s only by the grace of Magnus’ own magic that his toes aren’t pinching from his shoes. He’s admittedly a bit tired, but it’s a content kind of feeling that belies all of the enjoyment he’s had with Alexander by his side. They toured several of the grand cathedrals – and maybe even sacrilegiously defiled one while secluding themselves in a tiny alcove – and then Alec had suggested that they go _dancing_ , which had been a pleasant surprise. After it all, Magnus had found a lovely little locally owned pub that served horribly unhealthy food and enough alcohol to keep them warm even with the Russian winter around them.

Admittedly, their current predicament is _most likely_ Magnus’ fault. To be completely fair, it’s not as if Magnus is Alec’s _keeper_ or anything. Surely the shadowhunter is old enough to make such decisions for himself. And it’s not like Magnus _meant_ to lose their map. Or forget where the hotel is. He may be an old and powerful warlock, but sometimes accidents such as these happen. So maybe Alec has had way too much to drink, and Magnus has had a _little_ too much to drink, and they don’t really know where they are or where they’re going, and they’re just stumbling along the snowy streets and trying to figure out what the hell they’re doing.

Alec is particularly unhelpful at the moment. He’s all but draped over Magnus, one arm flung across the warlock’s shoulders, his other hand reaching all the way across his own body so that he can shove it into Magnus’ coat pocket. Why he doesn’t just use his own pockets, Magnus has absolutely no clue. But he is certainly not going to complain, not with how Alexander’s cheek is laying on his shoulder, or how the younger man keeps pressing sloppy little kisses against his neck, occasionally adding a hint of teeth and forcing Magnus’ arousal to sizzle through his blood.

They’re a completely uncoordinated tangle of limbs, and Magnus is having enough difficulty keeping _himself_ upright, let alone 6’3” of overly cuddly shadowhunter who can’t seem to find his own two feet. Alec doesn’t even seem to notice how precarious their positions are; he just clutches tighter to Magnus, like some overgrown limpet, and he buries his head at the juncture between his boyfriend’s shoulder and neck. It’s a damn miracle that they haven’t tripped over their own feet yet.

Alec _hates_ the cold; it’s something that Magnus has realized not from a direct statement by Alec, but rather through careful observation. The shadowhunter is _always_ cold, even in the heat of the summer. He never goes anywhere without at least one jacket, and he’s always curling his freezing feet against Magnus’ calves whenever they sleep, and he presses himself as close as possible to Magnus’ side when the weather gets even remotely chilly. Magnus never minds – he graciously accepts the cold feet that wake him up in the middle of the night – but even through his alcohol-addled brain, he has to admit that it is remarkably distracting.

He needs to pull out his phone and check to see if he can remember the name of their hotel. He never really books anything online, but surely _something_ will help kickstart his memory. But with Alec hanging off of him, he can’t manage to reach it in his back pocket. If Magnus doesn’t find their hotel, they’ll end up passing out on the streets somewhere.

So, he half-drags Alec over against the side of a building, the rough brick digging through their coats, and starts rifling through his pockets. Before he finds his phone, however, Alec seems to have other ideas. The shadowhunter pulls him in by his belt loops and is sealing their lips in a gloriously messy kiss before Magnus can so much as think about moving away. It’s nearly three in the morning, it’s miserably cold, and they have no clue where they’ve ended up, but Magnus is just a man who is hopelessly in love with his gorgeous boyfriend. Alec’s nose and cheeks are a brilliant red from a combination of the cold and alcohol, and his curly hair is peeking out from the bottom of his hat, and his eyes shine from all the Christmas lights strung up in the city.

Magnus’ brain feels like it’s drowning in syrup, sugary sweet and heavy. He sinks into the kiss, letting Alec’s cold hands inch up beneath the hem of his shirt while his own hands play with the baby hairs at the nape of Alec’s neck. Things rapidly devolve, as they so often do between them, until Magnus is pressing his full weight against Alec and the younger man is letting out these delicious little gasps.

But Magnus soon forces himself to pull back. Alec makes things impossibly harder by chasing his lips, and Magnus has to put his hands on the shadowhunter’s shoulders and hold him back just to ensure that they don’t get sidetracked. Again. His own self-control earns him nothing but a whine and a pout from his boyfriend.

“ _Mags_ ,” the overgrown puppy whines, drawing the name out almost enough to be obnoxious. His head lists to the side and he looks so utterly defeated that Magnus is all but obligated to coo at him and run a soothing thumb over his cheek.

“Not that I don’t love this turn of events, angel, but you are far too drunk for things to progress any further,” Magnus replies, and while he might be a bit tipsy and far too enamored with his boyfriend to deny him many things, this is something that he will always remain adamant on.

Alec smiles, boyish and dopey and ridiculous and Magnus adores him so much. “The only thing I’m drunk on is love!” he exclaims, throwing his arms out almost enough to overbalance himself.

Magnus has to grab his coat just to steady him again. “And also four too many cocktails,” the warlock remarks dryly.

His darling drunken boyfriend snorts, only to mumble _“cocktails”_ under his breath and giggle about it like some adolescent boy. Magnus thinks that maybe Alec’s been spending too much time with Jace and Simon.

He finally manages to pull out his phone and, of _course_ , there’s nothing useful. He’s taken pictures of him and Alec throughout the day, all of which have the location helpfully listed in the information; but he hadn’t taken any while they were still at the hotel and his mind is too fuzzy to try and trace their steps back. He can’t even just portal them there, because he needs to know _where_ he’s going in order to properly use a portal.

“We need to find the hotel, darling,” Magnus says out loud, not so much to gain any assistance from his boyfriend, who is definitely down for the count, but rather to try and kickstart his own ideas.

Alec gasps and Magnus immediately looks up from his phone, expecting a disaster of some sort. Instead, Alec looks positively delighted. “Mags! Mags, Magnus!” he calls, flailing an arm as if to better get Magnus’ attention. “The penguins!”

Ah, of course. How could Magnus forget the penguins?

Right across from their hotel, there had been a street performer. The bedraggled looking man had been playing the bongos while his three _pet penguins_ spun around and “danced.” Magnus is fairly certain that owning penguins isn’t quite legal, but he’s hardly the sort of person to rat someone out for something so harmless. And it helps that Alec had been so thoroughly enchanted by the flightless avians. He had practically forced Magnus to buy fish for the birds and they had ended up giving the man several hundred dollars.

And then, hours later when Alec had gotten himself wonderfully drunk, he had been nonstop rambling about everything he knew about penguins. One would think that surely a shadowhunter couldn’t possibly know that much about non-demon related subjects. That is an utterly erroneous assumption. Alec happens to know _a lot_ about penguins. And now so does Magnus.

(A drunken Alec had also spent nearly forty minutes attempting to find the perfect pebble for Magnus after explaining that penguins offered pebbles as courtship gifts. The rock he finally settled for wasn’t even a particularly pretty one. But Magnus may still have it resting in his pocket. And the penguin pebble may be getting a place of honor in Magnus’ apothecary.)

As much as Magnus completely, absolutely, wholeheartedly loves his Alexander, he _really_ doesn’t want to hear another spiel all about how _‘no penguins even live in the North Pole, so why do mundane Christmas movies always show them around Santa Claus?’_ He can see Alec about ready to fall back into his rambling, so he hurries and presses another searing kiss to his lover’s lips and only feels slightly guilty for it.

“Alright, darling, I’ll open a portal for us and then we can go straight to bed. And you will get the dubious honors of waking up with a hangover tomorrow.”

“No!” Alec interrupts, grabbing at Magnus’ hands before he can finish summoning up the portal. “Let’s walk!” he decides.

“Alexander, it is almost _three_ _in the morning_ and we’re still several blocks away,” Magnus tries to reason, even though he can already tell that it’s a lost cause. He is physically incapable of denying his angel anything, particularly when he brings out his kicked puppy look. Which the drunken bastard is doing now.

“But Mags! Look at the moon,” the shadowhunter explains, throwing an arm out in the direction of the nearly full moon high overhead. “It’s so beautiful. And _you’re_ so beautiful in the moonlight.”

While certainly less articulate than when sober, a drunken Alec still seems to know how to make a jaded old warlock swoon. So Magnus heaves out the most put-upon sigh and resigns himself to escorting his darling boyfriend home, stumbling coltish legs and all. He takes Alec’s arm and guides it back over his shoulders, his other arm wrapping around the small of Alec’s back, where he dips his hand into the back pocket on the opposite side.

Alec doesn’t even seem to be paying attention to the manhandling. He’s far more focused on waxing drunken poetic about how Magnus’ purple highlights look in the silver light of the moon. Magnus doesn’t dare try to stop him.

But, as always, the situation further escalates.

The shadowhunter abruptly stops, making Magnus skid to a halt beside him. And then, in what has to be the absolute loudest voice Magnus has ever heard from Alec, he bellows out the opening chorus of _That’s Amore_. The words stumble out of Alec’s mouth almost as much as his feet are on the ground, and his pitch is utterly _atrocious_ , but for perhaps the first time in his life Alec looks completely uninhibited by the world around them. Magnus’ cheeks hurt from smiling and his eyes sting from the tears that gather there. They start walking again, Alec singing out their love for all of Moscow to hear.

Until, just as suddenly, he cuts off mid-line and turns to look at Magnus with an upset expression. “Magnus, we’re in Moscow,” he says, mournful and tragic.

“Yes, my dear heart, we are. What’s wrong with Moscow?”

“I don’t know any Russian love songs! I don’t even know Russian. How am I supposed to serenade you with Russian love songs in Russia if I don’t even know Russian?”

And Magnus just tosses his head back and laughs, his breath fogging up the air and his eyes prickling with tears. Even in the bitter cold of the Russian winter around them, he feels warmer and lighter than he has in centuries, perhaps even in his entire life. Alec is still pouting beside him, and he consoles him by pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“You can’t go wrong with a Dean Martin song, lover boy. I would love for you to keep singing it for me.”

Alec grins, wide and gentle and carefree, and brushes the lightest little kiss on Magnus’ nose before immediately picking up right where he left off. Magnus sinks in against Alec’s side and continues herding his ridiculous boyfriend towards their hotel. He soaks in the steady warmth of Alexander’s body, the rumbling of his voice in the air, the weight of his arm dropped heavily over Magnus’ shoulders and he lets it sustain him.

 _This_ is _amore_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunken Alec gives me life and I hope you all enjoyed Alec's penguin facts. Very important knowledge right there.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! And don't forget to drop a comment!
> 
> ~PNGuin


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**

He’s freezing. It’s a hollow sort of cold. Like a great open cavern. It echoes throughout his blood. Saps every last bit of warmth from him. Somewhere, distant, there’s a single trickle. A steady _drip, drip, drip_ of heat. He tries to reach for it. It’s too far. His limbs are heavy. Frozen solid. Blocks of ice.

That’s wrong. He thinks. He isn’t supposed to be ice. He’s _fire_. The balmy heat of his mother’s land. The roaring of flames. The beating of the sun. The sickly fever of Edom. He’s always _hot, hot, hot_. His magic makes him _burn_. Always too much. Leaking out in excess waves of energy. It turns him hot. He’s always hot. In more ways than one. He isn’t supposed to be cold. At least. He thinks.

It’s hard. His brain is mushy. His thoughts are scattered. Each individual one comes. Slow. Muffled. Distant. As if he’s yelling down a long tunnel that is also underwater. He can’t hear. His bones are ice. He’s hollow.

He thinks it’s quite strange to be hollow. Not like hunger. Not like fear. But like his innards are completely _gone_. As if someone has ripped him open. And scooped all of his organs out. Why would they do that? It’s quite rude. He needs his organs to function. Thank you very much.

His head pounds. It’s a crippling, vibrating sort of pound. It rattles through his brain. Jolts his skull. He would throw up. But his stomach is gone. Nothing to vomit. He almost wants to. Just to get everything out. There isn’t anything to get out. He wants to reverse throw up. Pull everything back in. He doesn’t want to be hollow. It’s wrong. Bad. Painful. He wants the _drip, drip, drip_ to speed up. For the trickling stream of _warmth_ and _power_ to speed up. Wash over him. Fill up the cavern. With fire and flames and brimstone of Edom.

The emptiness _hurts_. He’s going to cave in on himself. Like a black hole. It aches. His bones are going to break, _snap, snap, snap_. He can’t breathe. His lungs are frozen over. Everything is shivering and rattling. He’s gasping for air. Nothing comes in. It burns but not the burn he _needs_. He’s cold and breaking and there’s _nothing_ inside him.

And then pressure. On his forehead. Holding his head down, keeping his skull together against the force of his brain pounding. The pressure is warm. Gloriously warm. It burns and he loves it, relishes in it. It moves, carding through his hair. Fingers. A hand. Keeping him grounded.

The pain recedes. Slow, but steady. And it’s replaced with…humming? It vibrates in the air, soft and delicate. There is no more rattling. Just humming. Gentle, quiet, soothing. Something in him settles. He feels less hollow. The dripping warmth continues. The humming and the hand stay with him. He lets go of the ice that’s encasing him.

 

He drifts. Foggy thoughts flit about. Gnats gathering around rotten fruits. It comes and goes. A cycle. Never ending. Eternal. Like the _yuga_ his mother once taught him about. Like himself. There isn’t a true beginning or end to his ephemeral consciousness. He’s certain that it must be the _kali yuga_. The age of darkness and ignorance. Sin. Lost knowledge. The end of the world. Or, at least, his own.

There is little consistency. The hand is almost always on him, somewhere. His forehead, his hair, his cheek, his hand. Always warm, always grounding, always there right when he feels like the ice encasing him is going to shatter. Going to break him right alongside it. And there is the humming. It’s familiar, somehow. He hears it like a dream that he forgets right as he thinks about it. It’s at the tip of his tongue. He can almost taste it.

The dripping grows, until there’s a small trickling brook of warmth. It percolates through his veins. Filling back in all of the empty cracks. Until it’s a stream and then a river and then a roaring ocean of flames. Heat and fire. Drowning him, flooding his very being. It burns away the lingering ache in his chest, the persistent rattle of his bones, the fogginess that plagues his mind, the creeping sickliness that clings to his insides like cobwebs. He is a phoenix, reborn from the raw power of his own flames.

Everything is _heavy_. He doesn’t think he could move his limbs if his life depended on it. But he takes a deep breath, and it doesn’t quite hurt anymore. It doesn’t quite _not_ hurt. But his lungs function and there isn’t a gaping emptiness in him and he isn’t cold any longer. Small victories, he supposes.

He becomes aware, in a way that the inky idling pool of his thoughts hadn’t been before. The thoughts are less like ephemeral bugs and more like the branches of a tree. They’re scattered in a multitude of directions, but they ultimately stem from some discernible root. He hasn’t quite reached that root. But he’s getting closer, inching his ways down the trunk like a particularly determined caterpillar.

The surface he’s lying on is neither hard nor soft and it frustrates him. He definitely prefers softer beds. And the sheets with the highest thread count. Judging by the coarse fibers that he can just barely feel under his fingers, it certainly isn’t any Egyptian cotton. Shame. Somewhere above him, the light shines through his eyelids and makes them translucent. If he focuses, he can almost make out his own blood vessels. That’s weird. He doesn’t really like that. Surely blood vessels are not something one wants to see on a daily basis. His nose itches. Sharp, medical, clean to the point of aggravation.

He’s missing something. He’s absolutely sure of it. He should be able to tell where he is based on the clues he has. He knows that he should. But the word is lost to the maelstrom of his shredded focus. It rattles around in his head, clanking against the sides and altogether being a nuisance.

The hand is there, holding his own. It’s cool to the touch now. Not cold, not like the ice burying him had been. But it’s not the searing warmth he had desperately sought out. Compared to his own, it’s just that slightest bit cooler. Still warm, but not as hot as he is. That means something. He’s sure of it. Perhaps even something good. He can’t quite grasp it.

He doesn’t have to, because then that humming returns. He lets himself sink into the gentle ebb and flow of the sound, lets it carry him along the guiding waters of the river. He’s never liked water. Not since…He hates water, even. But this time, he trusts it. Some instinctual awareness spurs him on. There’s something familiar about it all. The timbre, the tenderness, the timidity.

It’s a voice. That shouldn’t be so surprising. There aren’t many things that hum with inconsistent pitches in such a manner. But the realization hits him quite hard. It’s a voice. And a voice must surely come from a body. Perhaps even the same body that the hand belongs to. He’s still missing something. But unlike his inability to place his own location, he feels the lack of comprehension as a terrible tragedy. He needs to remember, needs to connect the dots. It’s there. It’s _right there_. He should know this. Should know it so well that he doesn’t even need to struggle to remember.

Because he knows that voice, that humming. He’s heard it, has had it pressed against his skin in soft kisses, has chased after it with a teasing laugh, has even tried to respond to it with his own lacking echo. It’s a sound that’s branded onto his very heart, beaten and bruised though it is. He needs to know. It’s so important because. Because.

There’s someone holding his hand. Someone singing to him. Someone waiting desperately for him. He needs to answer. Needs to get back. Home. There is home waiting, just beside him. And- and the name is right there. The name is seared onto his heart and ingrained in his mind and it flows throughout his veins with every single pump of blood, mixing with the magic that sizzles through him. It’s just as potent as any of his father-given power.

_Alexander_.

Of course. Who else?

His eyelids are impossibly heavy and, surely, he must be stronger than Atlas to finally drag them open. Only to have them immediately slam shut once again. It’s too fucking _bright_. His eyes burn. He tries easing them open again, keeping them in narrow slits. The world around him is a wash of white. He can’t seem to focus his eyes on anything. They flicker every which way, idly, aimlessly, until he remembers his entire goal.

Alexander, his guardian angel, is sitting at his bedside, a beautiful slash of dark hair and stark runes that interrupt the unforgiving whiteness. His precious love is hunched over himself; he can see the lines of exhaustion in the slump of his shoulders, the droop of his head, the almost painfully tight grip that the shadowhunter keeps on his hand. His heart hurts seeing his Alexander like this, and yet he can’t help but think that he looks so tragically beautiful. Like a character from one of Shakespeare’s tragedies.

More beautiful, however, is the fact that Alexander is singing.

Magnus has always loved his voice, whether it’s a gentle hum meant just for his ears or a drunken shout belted out for all the world. Alexander has a lovely voice. He’s tried telling him that before, but he never seems to listen. Never seems to understand just how much Magnus adores it whenever he sings. Especially if he’s singing _for_ Magnus. The warlock has been serenaded by musicians galore, but absolutely none of them could ever possibly measure up to the tenderness and love that pervades Alec’s voice.

He’s content to just lay there, eyes half open and body completely limp, in what he now recognizes as the Institute’s infirmary. He’s content to just breathe and let Alexander’s voice wash over him. The lyrics float into his ears and skitter around in his brain, and he’s certain that he must know them but they don’t click quite immediately. When they do, Magnus isn’t very surprised. He knows that Alec is quite a fan of classic rock, particularly Queen. And there he is, singing a soft lullaby-like version of _I Was Born to Love You._

His angel sings it better, in Magnus’ not so humble opinion.

Alexander’s voice suddenly cuts off in a choked sound. A sob. Magnus wants to raise his hand and lay it on the younger man’s cheek, wipe away the tears he’s sure are there, and watch as his darling leans into the gentle touch. But his arms are far too heavy. He would move mountains for Alexander, but he can’t even move his own arms. Can’t even hold his love.

But the shadowhunter swallows heavily, takes a deep breath, and starts right back where he left off. The words come, stumbling and halting, but made even more beautiful for all of their imperfections. Magnus adores this man, _loves_ him with every fiber of his being. And, suddenly, it’s absolutely imperative that Magnus _tells_ him, that Magnus lets the poor shadowhunter know he’s awake.

“Ale-” he tries to say, but his throat is more parched than the Sahara Desert, and the name scraps painfully at the tender skin.

It doesn’t matter, as Alexander is moving immediately. He flinches upright, one hand staying clasped to Magnus’, the other reaching out to brush some hair out of the warlock’s eyes. His touch is soft, tender, grounding. Magnus soaks it all in.

He can see Alexander better now, can see the dark bruising under his eyes, the split lip that hasn’t been healed yet, the pale and drawn nature of his cheeks. Magnus thinks that there must be some way to determine how long he was out just by factoring up how terrible his angel looks. But it’s terrible in a way that is still beautiful. It hurts Magnus’ heart; a good sort of hurt that reminds him it’s still beating away in his chest.

Alexander breathes out a choked sigh of relief. His eyes are filled with tears, and Magnus can see the trails from where previous tears have already fallen. His wonderfully calloused hand cups Magnus’ cheek ever so gently, and Magnus has just enough energy to lean his head into the blessed touch.

“Hey baby,” Alexander croaks out, a loving smile etched carefully in the exhausted lines of his face.

The shadowhunter turns to the bedside table, reaching out and grabbing a cup that is resting there. It isn’t water that touches against Magnus’ lips, but instead a chip of half-melted ice. It’s a little too cold for his liking, but the water is soothing as it melts in his mouth and washes down his throat. After Alexander has dutifully given Magnus several ice chips, he sets the cup back on the table and returns his hand to Magnus’ cheek, where it rightfully belongs.

“You gave us quite the scare,” his love explains, voice croaky and shaky even as he valiantly attempts to slip into the tone he uses for mission briefings. “You took quite a hit from those _raum_ demons. Multiple poisoned lacerations and several broken bones. You were nearly completely drained of magic. It took Catarina and some Silent Brothers a few hours before you were stabilized. You’ve been out for almost four days.”

It all comes out succinctly, almost sounding detached, but Magnus can see the fervent pain in Alexander’s dark eyes, can feel the desperation as he runs his fingers through Magnus’ no doubt disgusting and unwashed hair.

“You’re alright,” his angel breathes out. Magnus doesn’t know if it’s more for Alexander’s benefit or for his own. “It was touch and go for a bit there, but Cat says you’re going to make a full recovery.”

Magnus tries to squeeze Alexander’s hand. It doesn’t seem like there’s enough force behind it, but Alexander raises their clasped hands to his mouth and presses an achingly tender kiss onto the dry skin of the warlock’s knuckles.

“I love you,” Alexander chokes out, just as endearingly honest as the first time he ever said it. Magnus can’t respond, not verbally, but he tilts his head enough to press a lazy, close-mouthed kiss to the palm that is resting against his cheek.

He can feel himself fading again, being drawn back into the soporific depths of his own mind. He knows that he should give in, should let himself slip under in order to feel better and heal. But he needs one more thing from Alexander, needs to get out one snippet of a sentence before he lets go once more.

“Sing for me?” he croaks.

Alexander smiles and starts back at the beginning of the song.

Perhaps Alexander really was born to love Magnus; but Magnus thinks that maybe he was also born to love Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the most difficult for me so far, and I'm not sure if I'm proud of it, but oh well. Can't go wrong with some hurt Magnus and worried Alec.
> 
> The yuga and kali yuga that Magnus mentions in passing are concepts from Hinduism. They are these different eras in a recognized cycle, essentially.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> ~PNGuin


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter happens after Magnus loses his magic in episode 3.10.

**V**

 

The power is out, and it’s ruining everything. When he looks out the balcony windows, the buildings around him are similarly blanketed in a layer of inky darkness. In some of the apartments across the street, there’s the soft muted glow of candles and flashlights. Magnus doesn’t even think he _owns_ a flashlight and all of his candles are specifically made for various summonings and the like. Definitely not the sort of wax sticks one lights just for a casual purpose, not unless they want the smell of sulfur and brimstone lingering in their house for weeks on end and a few goblin-like demons hiding in the cupboards. So the only light he has to work with is the weak reflected light coming from the half-moon, which is intermittently broken by the wispy cloud cover.

It seems to only be his neighborhood affected by the situation. Beyond his immediate vicinity, he can see the still-bright shine of the city’s skyline. Nor does it seem to be an outage caused by any worrisome circumstances. Although it’s late April and they have managed to escape the frosts and snows, the wind has been quite terrible for the last few days. He assumes that there are some power lines that received a bit of damage. Annoying as it may be, it’s far from the hectic situation of several months ago when a handful of _vetȩ_ demons ran amuck around the city and caused one of the most catastrophic power outages New York has ever seen.

No, this is not the fault of any demons. And that’s a good thing, he knows that it is. It means that there are no innocent people being slaughtered by the creatures. It means that his dear Alexander isn’t running around, blaming himself for every life that he cannot save. And Magnus is happy for that. He truly is.

But he’s also frustrated. Also _angry_. Because here he is, rendered completely useless by an utterly _mundane_ issue. There are no demons to fight, no spells to counter, no potions to brew. There’s nothing he can do about it. And that _rankles_ all of his self-control. Every last drop of it. He’s _Magnus fucking Bane_. He’s utterly useless. And it terrifies him.

It’s not that Magnus is afraid of the dark. That is an incredibly infantile thought. There is nothing wrong with a lack of light; he knows his apartment like the back of his hand, and he can easily navigate with or without any illumination. And although he is far more aware of the things that lurk in the darkness than any mundane, he also knows that the likelihood of any such creatures being in his living space is slim to none at this point. None of those basal concerns are the issue.

The problem, rather, is how unnerving it is to suddenly lack all the power in his apartment. It almost feels as if the place has died, as if it’s now a decrepit relic. No power, no use, no life.

Admittedly, it’s a bit on the nose at the moment. Or, perhaps, the problem is simply that Magnus is reading too deeply into it. His apartment isn’t the only thing suddenly lacking power.

It’s been several weeks. Several weeks since he went to Edom, since he saw his father for the first time in over three centuries, since he traded away his magic, since he showed up in that alley only to see Alexander…

Anyway. It’s been a rough few weeks. And now this is just adding insult to injury.

Because here he is, standing in his dark kitchen, and absolutely nothing has gone right. All he wanted – _all he wanted_ – was to finally just have a nice night in with his boyfriend. Alec has been running himself _absolutely ragged_ : he’s dealing with the Clave and the fallout of their actions against Lilith, he’s being forced to work alongside a pissy and embittered Lorenzo Rey in the Downworld Cabinet, he’s been trying to help Jace heal from his possession and looking for Clary and helping his newly deruned mother find her footing and still coming home every single night to make sure that Magnus is okay.

Magnus knows that it’s been hard on him, on _both_ of them. He knows that his own volatile temper, and his recent dependency on his drink cart, and his complete inability to clean the dishes or his clothes or anything else, have made life infinitely harder. He’s just been overflowing with fury and desperation, and he can never quite find the motivation to stop himself, to pick up the pieces and clean up his life and let himself start healing. He knows that he should, knows that he _needs_ to. If not entirely for himself, then also for his wonderfully patient boyfriend, who deserves far better than Magnus can offer at the moment.

And yet Alexander continues to come home every night, like clockwork, like the absolutely only reliable thing he has left. The nephilim picks up the scattered and empty bottles that once held alcohol, cleans the dishes, makes them dinner, gathers up all the discarded clothes and does the laundry – even going so far as to hand wash all of Magnus’ more delicate designer clothing – and then he collects Magnus, who is almost always mopey and moody and horribly drunk at that point, and he gets them ready for bed.

Every. Single. Day.

No more. He’s so angry. At the world, at his father, at Lilith, at himself. But not at Alexander, _never_ at Alexander. He sees it in Alec’s heavy eyes every day that he finds Magnus slumped against the drink cart, every night that Magnus can’t sleep with the hollowness that plagues his body, every morning that Magnus doesn’t drag himself from bed to give Alexander his good morning hug and kiss. He can see that dark gaze, seeping with guilt and self-loathing. Alexander thinks that Magnus is angry with him, thinks that Magnus blames him, even thinks that he _deserves_ it.

It seems particularly cruel to think it, but Magnus hates seeing that look. That simpering gaze of Alec’s just makes him want to drink more and more and more. And whenever any of the other little shadowhunter ducklings come over it increases nearly tenfold. Their pitying looks, their sympathetic grief, their insistent self-blaming. It’s all absolutely _infuriating_ and Magnus’ blood wants to boil from it all. He wants to blow up and lash out and let everyone else feel the worst of his fury.

He nearly has. Or, not even nearly. He _has_. He’s been vicious and volatile and vitriolic towards Alexander, towards Catarina, towards all of the people who love him and are trying to help. He’s screamed himself hoarse in Alexander’s direction, he’s thrown the majority of his own plates just to watch them shatter against the wall. In one particularly horrific incident, he had even ended up shoving Alec away, had tried _hitting_ him. A pathetic hit, his hand a feeble tap against his chest that the shadowhunter had hardly felt, but Alec hadn’t even tried to stop him, hadn’t even gotten angry. He had just accepted it.

Magnus has a lot to apologize for. More than he ever thinks he’ll be able to make up for. But he can try. He _has_ to try. For himself, for Alexander, for everything that they have together. And that’s what tonight was supposed to be. A nice dinner, something that he cooked himself, a distinct lack of alcohol, which he’s sure would be a welcome change to his angel, and maybe the chance to just sit together on the couch, talking through all of the things that they have been avoiding.

He’s had several weeks to mourn his magic, several weeks to feel the suffocating loss, and despair, and agony. It’s time to pick himself back up and put all of the scattered pieces back together. It’s time to let Alexander back in and it’s time to begin the arduous process of healing.

But, of course, the power is out.

Which means that the oven isn’t on, nor does the stove work. The crockpot is out of commission, the lights are out, his radio can’t turn on. He was in the middle of painstakingly slicing carrots when the power went out, only to accidentally cut his own finger. It’s wrapped up now, a hastily finished job that he’s certain Alexander will insist on redoing. So he’s left with a half-cooked chicken, unboiled potatoes, and a sliced up finger.

He just wanted to do something nice for his boyfriend, in thanks for his patience and in apology for his own pitiful behavior. And he can’t even accomplish that much. It isn’t even his fault, and he _knows_ that; the power is out by some circumstance outside of his control. But he can’t just _let go_ of the feeling of frustration plaguing him. He wants to have power, he wants to have _his_ power back. He’s lived his life remarkably the same way for nearly four centuries, and while he is often a proponent for change, this change is certainly not in his favor.

But. He can’t alter his circumstances. Not in this case. And he’s just so _tired_ of being angry, of being hurt, of hurting the people he loves. It’s exhausting and he’s been even more miserable for it.

Suddenly, he can’t breathe. His eyes are burning and it’s not even because of his glamor – because there isn’t even anything left to _hide_ , and he never thought that he would _miss_ his cat eyes. His chest is tight, his hands are shaking, he can’t even see most of his apartment and none of the food is cooked and he just can’t do _anything_.

He’s hanging onto his tears by a single thread of self-control. His knees shake and nearly give out, and it’s only his hands planted against the kitchen island that stop him from collapsing. His lungs spasm in his chest and he gasps for air. It isn’t enough; it doesn’t fill up the hollow spaces of himself. His finger throbs and he thinks it might still be bleeding and he chokes down a sob with a strangled gasp that leaves his ribs aching.

From the foyer, he can hear the _snick_ of the door as Alec unlocks it. The newly familiar sound should settle his nerves, the thought that Alec is home should steady his tumultuous emotions. Instead, all he can think about is how they never used to need keys, about how his boyfriend will walk in and expect Magnus to be slumped against the drink cart, about how Alec will only be marginally surprised to see Magnus fighting tears in a slightly different location.

He tracks Alec’s movements through the apartment with a sense of familiarity that just burns his heart even more. The rustle of his jacket as he takes it off and hangs it up, the crinkling of grocery bags because Alec has been the one going out and getting their necessities lately, the ceramic _clink_ of his keys in the little bowl on the foyer table, the dull thud of his weapons being left at the door. He can hear each of Alec’s steps – and he knows that he can only hear them because Alec has always made a very conscious effort to make his otherwise silent movements louder than normal – and he hates himself for the welling of dread that grows the nearer Alec draws.

Within mere moments, Alec is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, silhouetted by the meek moonlight. “Hey babe,” he greets, voice infinitely soft and tender in a way that never ceases to surprise Magnus.

He hates it, just the littlest, tiniest bit. Hates that Alec never seems to grow angry or frustrated with him, hates that even when he _does_ get pissed off and storms away he is never gone for long, never leaves Magnus to stew in his self-pity. Hates that Alec never gives him the vitriol that he deserves, that he _needs_.

“I stopped by the corner store and got us some flashlights and such,” Alec continues.

 _Gods_ , Magnus didn’t even think to do that much. And that’s the final straw, that last little piece that finally breaks the camel’s back. A heavy, choking sob wells up and settles in the meager space between them. It opens the floodgates, and suddenly Magnus is gasping for breath, heaving out strangled sobs that rattle deep in his chest and vibrate throughout all of his limbs. His knees shake, and it’s only the strength of Alec’s arms wrapping securely around him that keeps him upright. And in the sanctity of Alexander’s hold, he lets himself go. He screams and he sobs against Alec’s shoulder until he can feel the sleeve grow damp, he clutches onto Alec, digging his nails in enough to leave marks even through the shirt, he leans his body into Alec and lets the nephilim take his entire weight.

Distantly, he’s aware that Alec doesn’t try to shush him, doesn’t even try to soothe him. There’s no hollow _‘it’s okay’_ s, no empty promises, no lackluster reassurances. Instead, Alexander holds him tightly enough that Magnus thinks it will most likely bruise, tightly enough that he finally feels like the pieces of himself are coming back together, like they might even one day _stay_ together. And he whispers a quiet string of _‘I’m here, Magnus’, ‘I’m not going anywhere, baby’, ‘we’ll get through this, sweetheart,’_ interspersed only by the achingly tender kisses pressed to his temple.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, wrapped around each other in Magnus’ powerless kitchen, clinging to each other tight enough that he’s almost certain they bleed into each other. But, eventually, Magnus seems to cry out every single drop of water in his body. He sags, boneless and exhausted, against his darling nephilim. Alexander, for his part, doesn’t even stagger from the weight, doesn’t even seem to notice the burden he bears.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, a feeble, tragic little sound.

Alec immediately hushes him, sweeping one of his hands to cup the back of Magnus’ head, letting his fingers gently thread through the strands of unstyled, unwashed hair. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he adamantly insists.

“Yes. Yes I do,” Magnus argues. He draws in a steadying breath and tightens his arms even further around Alec. “I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting,” he admits. “I know my behavior hasn’t been making things easier, for either of us. _Gods_ , Alexander. The things I’ve said, the things I’ve _done_ -”

“You’ve been hurting,” Alec interrupts.

“That doesn’t excuse anything,” Magnus stops him. “And I’m- I’m going to do better, Alexander. I’m going to try.”

“I know,” his darling angel responds with a simple conviction that shakes the very foundations of his world and yet solidifies the ground he stands upon. As if Alec has always known, far better than even Magnus. “You were mourning. You needed to mourn. But now you can start healing, and I’ll be here for you, no matter what.”

“I love you,” he breathes out, and it’s the easiest thing he’s ever said, “so much more than I ever believed possible.”

Alec pulls back, just enough to lightly kiss the tip of Magnus’ nose. Although Magnus can’t see his angel’s smile in the darkness around them, he knows that it’s there. “I love you, too,” his Alexander promises. “Now, what happened to the kitchen?”

Magnus groans and presses his forehead against Alec’s shoulder. He curses the nephilim vision that allows his shadowhunter to see the state the kitchen is in, even with only the meager moonlight leaking into the room. There’s a half-cooked chicken congealing in the cold oven. There are potato peelings scattered about, littering the sink and counter. There’s a knife with the tiniest bit of his blood crusting over it. He hasn’t showered in several days and his hair is greasy and unwashed, his makeup – hastily applied earlier that day – is an absolute mess on his face, his nails are chipped and bitten down to the quick.

He explains all of this in some quick, stumbling ramble that even he hardly understands. Surely, Alexander catches maybe every other word that tumbles out rapid fire. His angel tries to soothe him again, but Magnus has his fingers twisting painfully in his own hair and he wants to _tug_ until he can feel the pull of his scalp.

“I just wanted us to have a nice evening but then the power went out and I couldn’t do anything to fix it and now everything is _ruined_ and I’m so sorry,” Magnus chokes out, and every word scrapes along his throat like acid.

“Hey, hey, baby look at me,” Alexander calls, and the siren song of his voice coaxes him out of his own head. Alec’s hands are resting on top of his own, interlacing their fingers and gently easing the painfully tight grasp he has on the strands of his hair.

Magnus hesitantly complies, meeting his boyfriend’s eyes. Even in the darkness of the apartment, he can see the love shining in the shadowhunter’s soft smile. It makes his knees tremble and his heart stutter in his chest.

“Nothing is ruined,” Alec insists, and his conviction is firm enough that Magnus can almost believe it.

“We don’t have any food-”

“We can order takeout.”

“There’s no power-”

“Guess we’ll just have to huddle for warmth.”

“And there’s nothing to do!” Magnus finishes his rant, tossing his hands up in frustration. He lived through centuries without electricity and somehow kept himself occupied, but now he can’t think of a single thing for them to spend their time doing. They can’t watch any movies or TV shows, they can’t listen to music, they can’t read – well, they could with flashlights or with Alec’s night vision rune, but neither of those options are good for their eyes, and that’s something Magnus has to consider now because maybe he only has another handful of years before he’ll start needing _bifocals_.

Alexander regards him for several stretched out minutes; he can’t see the beautiful hazel of the younger man’s eyes, but he can feel the intensity of his gaze seeping into his own skin. “Come on,” his shadowhunter urges, grabbing Magnus’ hand in one of his own and gently tugging him out of the kitchen and into the living room.

He retrieves his grocery bag from where it was resting by the couch and begins removing candles. They’re the cheap almost-plastic kind, but Alexander places them around the living room and lights them with such diligence that they are the most romantic display he’s ever seen. Once Alexander is done with that, he sets about shoving the couches and tables and chairs out of the way. Magnus just leans back against the wall, watching the smooth lines of his features and the roll of his muscles, rendered soft in the gentle light from the silver moon and the golden candles.

“What are you doing, Alexander?” he wonders, not even attempting to fight the small smile that curls at the corners of his lips.

His darling nephilim merely grins – that private little grin that belongs to Magnus and Magnus alone – and he stands there, one hand held aloft in the warlock’s direction. When Alexander starts to sing, his voice is gentle, a soft joy pervading the air around him. It dances in the moonlight, shadowed by the candles, and it warms the hollow spaces residing in Magnus’ soul.

 _“Listen, baby. Ain’t no mountain high, ain’t no valley low, ain’t no river wide enough, baby.”_ He pauses after the first verse, hand still held aloft in Magnus’ direction and an expectant smile dimpling his cheeks. But he’s silent, waiting, a single eyebrow raised and laughter in his eyes, and Magnus knows exactly what his lover wants.

“No,” Magnus tries to deny, even as he has to duck his head just to hide the infectious smile that makes his cheeks hurt. “Alexander, you know I can’t sing,” he insists, but he can’t resist the tug in his heart that has him stepping ever closer to his love.

“Come on, Mags,” Alec laughs and the sound makes Magnus’ chest ache. “I can’t sing a duet by myself.”

He takes Alec’s hand and they sing and dance the night away, their love illuminated only by the silver and gold of the moon and the candles. Magnus knows that there are hurdles he – _they_ – must overcome, burdens that they must learn to bear. He knows that there will always be something weighing them down, something to threaten the safety and sanctity of their relationship. But it’s easier to accept such hardships when he’s twirling under Alec’s arm, or being dipped by the shadowhunter, or laughing hard enough to cry into his lover’s shoulder.

There will always be mountains and valleys and rivers, but Alexander makes Magnus believe that nothing is insurmountable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and we'll be done!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter and thank you for reading! Please leave me a comment!
> 
> ~PNGuin


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs post-canon. :)

**+I**

 

The world always holds its breath during a new moon. There is that hopeful tension, found in the solid bark of the oldest trees, in the still-green shoots that inch their way ever upward, in the susurrus and swaying of the grass, in the twinkling of the stars as they light the night sky while the moon sleeps on.

The air smells of fresh earth, and that particular scent of fallen leaves as they dapple the ground, and – unmistakable to anyone versed in magic – the distinct lingering of magic. It coats the ground and crawls up the trees and stretches up to the very top branches, reaching ever higher towards the most distant stars. It sings in the air, in the birdsong, in the gentle lullaby of the earth. It is a new moon, a time for beginnings, and the world waits in eager anticipation for what it will bring.

They had found this ethereal place – this grove and field where the veil is thin and magic _lives_ – in the early months of their relationship, those weeks of tentative flirting and cautious half-aborted touches. While exploring a more rural city nearby, Alexander had insisted on going for a hike. Magnus had, a bit reluctantly, trudged along beside the shadowhunter, watching in bemusement as the younger man bounded up the overgrown trails and scrambled over rocks like some rambunctious boy. When they had broken through the line of towering trees, it had opened up into an enclosed field filled with tall grass and an uninterrupted sea of flowers.

It had been a still scene before them, not out of stagnation, but rather from a calmness that belied countless years of remaining untouched. An isolated serenity that existed entirely outside of the never-ending chaos that plagued their lives. Alexander had hesitantly reached for his hand and led him over to a particularly shaded tree, tugging Magnus down until they were resting against the trunk and gazing up at the clouds scudding past. After some rest, the shadowhunter had set about exploring, dragging Magnus around the edges of the field and peering into the woods that lined it.

Hidden just within the cover of the trees had been a beautiful gazebo, overgrown with vines along the edges and flowers peeking out through the edges of cracking wood. Although left forgotten to the mercy of nature, it had remained remarkably well-preserved. The paint had been worn soft by the years, but it remained clinging to the wood with a quiet subtleness that spoke of old magic. Perhaps by a warlock long since passed. Perhaps even by the fae, when they enjoyed dancing between the realms. Abandoned, forgotten, lost. But still standing, still beautiful, even against the test of time.

They had passed the day idling there, in that land of untouched existence, shielded from the storms of life. And they had returned whenever the need to escape had grown undeniable, to stargaze in that great, flowing field, to climb the trees like the boys neither of them had ever gotten the chance to be, to compete in ridiculous snowball fights when the winter winds hit. Magnus is pretty certain that he has lived more the past few years, frolicking about in a field with Alec by his side like they’re a couple of lovesick teenagers, than he has in the entirety of his life.

And now, Magnus is back under the shelter of that same gazebo, sparkling with soft fairy lights and the distant stars. Even though it’s mid-October, their little sliver of the world is suffused with the close warmth of loved ones. All around him are the ragtag band of his dearest friends, of his precious _family_. Those who have been at his side for decades – Catarina and Raphael – and even those who he never expected to include among his most trusted confidantes – _Maryse Lightwood_. So many people around him, people who love him and have been there for him in his most pressing hours. And he loves them – dearly – but he only has eyes for one. Will only ever have eyes for one for the rest of his life.

His Alexander.

His _husband_.

It’s the new moon of October 15, 2020, exactly four years since their first date at the Hunter’s Moon. Around them, the veil is thin from the outpouring of joy, of happiness, of _love_. If Magnus were any more hopelessly romantic than he already is, he would dare say that the world is waiting with bated breath, quivering in barely restrained exultation at the sight of the beautiful golden ring nestled on the fourth finger of his left hand, right where it belongs. His hand reaches out, seeking its complementary partner.

He had painstakingly slaved over Alexander’s ring. Endless _months_ of deliberation, of searching for the perfect materials, the perfect look, the perfect ring to give to the man that means absolutely everything to him. To any outsiders, the ring would appear perhaps overly simplistic, just a bare golden band. But Magnus had woven countless charms and benedictions into the very metal of the ring, some that he had newly invented just to ensure that his Alexander would be protected, no matter what. Etched lovingly along the inside curve are three little words, words that have been safeguarded in Magnus’ heart since his childhood and are now Alec’s to carry forever: _Aku cinta kamu._ The ring sits, bold but comfortable, on the calloused hand of an archer, a warrior, a lover. And it’s perfect.

His own ring is vastly different, and yet similarly perfect. Alec had lovingly made the golden band himself with the help of Isabelle and Clary. The swirling filigree of the band appears to be whimsical and nonsensical at first glance; but, with a trained eye, one can pick out the swooping lines of angelic runes, of protection and strength and promise. On one side, the love rune; on the other, the marriage rune. And, situated in the middle of the band, a beautiful golden stone, innervated with tendrils of green. The same color of his eyes, a color he has only recently learned to love thanks to his darling.

Their hands meet, and not for the first time – nor the last – Magnus feels a thrill run down his spine and rattle him to his very core. It is warm and comforting, an ever-present embrace, and he is certain that he could live for all eternity and never, ever grow tired of such a feeling. After months of research and planning, they had managed to wrest Magnus’ magic back from the greedy clutches of his father, and, while he is undoubtedly happy to have his power returned to him, not even the immortal thrum of his magic can compare to the throbbing of his heart that Alexander has always so easily inspired.

Magnus slides his hands up the length of Alec’s arms, over the slope of his shoulders, until his fingers latch behind the nape of his neck. Alexander’s own hands wrap around to the small of his back, pulling them flush against each other so that all Magnus can feel is the warmth of his nephilim’s body and the steady rise and fall of his chest. He lets his nails scrape ever so slightly through the small hairs, can feel Alexander’s subsequent shudder and the hitch of his breath.

He’s mapped out every inch of Alec’s body, knows it better than his own. Knows the shift of weight as they sway in place, knows the little exhale of breath after every kiss they share, knows the gentle pressure of fingers as they curl at the small of his back. He’s traced the runes and the scars and the dips and the valleys with loving attention to detail. And he knows, intimately, the gentle, heart-quaking smile that stretches across those pink lips as Alexander buries his head against Magnus’ shoulder, he knows the rapturous tears that shine in hazel eyes and collect on long eyelashes and stain the fabric of his jacket.

They’re the same beatific grin and tears as when Magnus had finally dropped to one knee and poured his heart out, when Alexander had choked out a heartfelt _‘yes, it’s always a yes for you, Magnus’_ , when they had been rendered completely incapable of kissing because they were smiling too widely and laughing against each other’s mouths.

It’s no different now, even as they begin swaying to the silent music around them. Technically speaking, it’s not _officially_ their wedding. _Technically_ , their wedding is some extravagant affair in Idris, some over-the-top political statement being made all because it’s the first shadowhunter-downworlder union that the Clave has ever been forced to accept and it just so happens to be the High Warlock of Brooklyn and Head of the New York Institute. Everyone who is anyone in the Shadow World is invited; the Consul will be there, the Praetor Lupus, High Warlocks from around the world, and – begrudgingly – even the Seelie Queen was given a courtesy invite.

And that’s all well and good, Magnus thinks. It’s odd but still a bit exciting that the two of them – an openly gay shadowhunter and bisexual warlock couple – will receive the _honor_ of being married in the heart of Alicante, that so many downworlders have been invited into the City of Glass after hundreds of years of restricted access just to celebrate their union. But they’ve been running around, been pulled in different directions by the plethora of politicians who think they have any say in the proceedings, and quite frankly it’s utterly _exhausting_. They will play their part and graciously act as the major political statement of the century, but those are not the memories they want to share for their _wedding_.

So, several days before the _official union_ , they came to the abrupt conclusion that all they wanted was a small, intimate ceremony. Something that was just _them_ and their closest loved ones. And, in the span of a mere two hours, they managed to gather up their ragtag wedding party and shuffle everyone through a portal. Honestly, the whole affair is hardly more than a slightly better planned elopement. Raphael is – ironically enough – an ordained minister, and Madzie collected wildflowers to line the banister of the gazebo, and when Alec and Magnus poured their hearts out in their own handwritten vows there wasn’t a single dry eye.

They don’t even have any music. And, sure, Magnus could very easily summon a guitar and piano for Simon and Jace, as they plan on doing in Idris. But there’s something sacred in the quiet around them, mixing with the chitter of nighttime insects, the rustling of the leaves, the hum of life that seeps into the very earth. In the minimal space between them, some ancient magic settles as light as snowfall, a song for them to dance along to, heard in their mingled breaths, in the slide of their fingers, in the beat of their hearts.

They dance to the song of eternity, there in the grove that remains untouched by time, that will hold onto their memories until the sun fades. Magnus doesn’t have a lovely singing voice – certainly not compared to his Alexander, _his husband_ – but it will suffice. He leans his cheek on Alec’s shoulder, his lips close enough to the shadowhunter’s ear that they skim the shell, and he exhales the lyrics like they’re the breath of life. Quiet, meant just for their little bubble of existence, shielded from the world and even from their loved ones around them.

Magnus’ entire life has been leading up to this. He’s sure of it. Every second of every day, all of the trauma and the agony, the countless years of loneliness that once plagued him. It was all leading up to this singular moment, a moment where time stands still in the face of their love. He murmurs out words that echo from the very depths of his heart, ringing with a truth that both rattles his core and grounds his every step, and he lets them sink into Alexander. A reassurance, an oath, a promise.

_Forever I’m yours. Forever I do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is, of course, the fan favorite: 'I Get To Love You' by the lovely Ruelle.
> 
> Thank you all very much for reading til the end, and I hope you enjoyed the story. Please leave comments and kudos!
> 
> ~PNGuin
> 
> P.S. We better be getting a damn Malec wedding in season 3B.


End file.
